


Learning Kind

by ChimaeraKitten



Category: Batgirl (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Oc of necessity, but its there, but she was, idk why she was in england, it's barely referenced and more tame than canon, minor warning for child in distress, uh, what cass was up to between leaving cain and arriving in gotham, yes editing we do not die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 01:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17397131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChimaeraKitten/pseuds/ChimaeraKitten
Summary: Pre-batgirl Cass did not have an easy time of it. Luckily, there was help for her when she needed it.





	Learning Kind

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of for Cee and Audrey and Jersey, but it's weird to gift a work to three people so i'm not doing that.

The girl is curled up underneath a park table, watching the rain fall with unfocused eyes. She’s lucky today; the park cleared out with the rain, and there was a slice of pizza still in the hastily trashed box from the party here. Even better, the disposable plastic tablecloth left behind blocks the holes in the metal lattice table top, and makes it a perfect place to shelter from the rain.

It doesn't do anything to hold off the bite of cold, but the girl takes what she can get.

A gust of wind throws a spray of rain underneath the table, and the girl curls up tighter. She feels cold all over, and her stomach protests her rapid meal of just a few minutes before. She holds in the pain. If she lets it out, it will spill across the pavement and she’ll have to take again tonight. She hates taking. When she takes, the people always get sad, and she aches worse inside no matter how much food she got from the taking.

The rain beats the tablecloth like a drum, roaring in the girl’s ears. The squall has become a proper storm. The girl shivers.

There’s a tearing, flapping noise, and the rain pours through the lattice unhindered. The girl straightens, rousing despite herself. She hisses when her head hits the underside of the table.

There’s a soft exclamation just above her, and the girl looks into the widened eyes of an older woman, hunched over with an umbrella trapped between her neck and shoulder and the tablecloth and clips gathered up in her hands.

The girl tenses. She rolls out from beneath the table and her feet are beneath her in a blink. Her knees shake and nearly give out as she whirls. She does not have the strength to run. She will have to hope this ends quickly.

The woman’s body it still startled-afraid, and the girl will have to strike before it becomes wary-angry-violent. She moves, but not as fast as she usually does. The woman moves away before the girl can close the distance, and she has to breathe before moving again.

The woman is concerned-afraid-protective now, and the umbrella has tumbled to the ground, turning slowly in a small puddle. The girl looks around for what made the woman protective and sees nothing, no child, no animal, no food. Only a washed out landscape of grey water meets the girl’s eyes.

There’s a wet wumpf and the woman has her hands out, low, palms up. Consoling-reassuring-concerned-protective. The tablecloth sits on the ground at her feet. The girl goes still.

The woman opens her mouth. “Are you alright, dear?’

Concern. Stop that.

The girl turns away and hunches. Dismissive. Cold rain slides like un-sheathed knives down her back.

“Oh goodness, are you alone? Do you need help?”

Neither words nor tone come easily to the girl, but she can sense the latter. It’s like when a person goes careful-pitying. Careful-pitying does not help the girl.

The woman moves, but only to crouch low. It hurts her a bit, but her body is all kindness. “It’s alright if you don’t want to talk. Are you cold?”

The upturn at the end means she wants information. The girl makes her body do the “I don’t know.”

The woman’s body has sad in the kind, now. She unwraps fabric from around her neck and holds it out, offering. The girl is cold, hesitant, but the woman is honest. The fabric is in the girl’s hands, and then wrapped around her neck and shoulders. It is warmer and drier than any of the girl’s clothes.

“Do you have anywhere to go? Can I call your parents?”

More sounds. The girl doesn’t react.

The woman reaches out for the girl, and the girl steps backward, swaying slightly from fatigue. The woman puts her hands out again. “I’m sorry. My name is Susan. I just came back for the tablecloth. But—” Hesitance. “—Do you need help? Shelter?”

The girl laces her fingers through the fabric around her neck. It’s cozy, but not constricting. She blinks at the woman.

“Why don’t you come with me, dear? My house isn’t far. You can get dried off while I ring your parents. I don’t have one of those cell phones.” She turns away and gathers up the tablecloth and umbrella. She wants the girl to follow, that much is clear, but the girl hesitates still. There is no malice in the woman, but the girl’s fear is hard-earned, hesitation hard-won.

The woman kneels down, knees soaking in the wet ground. Gentle, submissive, non-threatening. “I promise I won’t hurt you. You’ll catch your death out here.”

It has been a very long time since anyone has humbled themselves before the girl. When the woman rises, the girl follows.

The woman’s house, only three blocks from the park, is small, cozy. A row house, sharing two walls with its neighbors. The woman guides the girl inside.

“I’ll put the kettle on.”

The girl stands on the doormat, dripping rainwater. She can still hear the rain outside. She can leave now, escape, if she wants. The woman can’t stop her. Can’t even try.

She stays.

The woman returns with a towel. She offers it up. “Dry yourself off.”

The girl knows what to do, she’s seen it enough, on beaches, in locker rooms snuck into for a hot shower. She scrubs the towel through her hair and down her limbs, scraping water off half numb fingers and pulling a few drops from soaked-through clothes. She removed the fabric from her neck and hands it to the woman, she folds it over one arm while the girl finishes with the towel.

The woman beckons again, and the girl follows her up a set of stairs. She stands still as the woman drapes the wet towel over the railing and retrieves a second towel from the closet. She gestures through an open door. “There’s a shower in there, if you want to properly wash off.”

The girl peers through the doorway. She recognizes the features inside. She makes her face happy and takes the towel.

 

* * *

 

When the girl slips out of the room there are a set of clothes sitting folded on the floor. She pulls them on over her own thin clothing. They’re large enough that they still hang loose on her frame.

She smells something warm and inviting downstairs. She follows the scent, and finds the woman setting out a bowl of red sauce with strange gold loops floating in it.

The woman looks up. “Do those clothes fit you alright? My granddaughter is big for her age but I wasn’t sure.”

A query. The girl’s head dips forward twice, even though she doesn’t understand the question. People always get happier when she does the head dip.

The woman is no exception. She brightens and gestures at the bowl. “Come eat then. I’m afraid all I have is spaghetti-Os, but they’re warm at least.”

The girl doesn’t know what the sounds mean, but the intent is in the woman’s hands. She wants the girl to eat.

The girl sits. Leans forward and smells the bowl. It has an almost cloying scent. Sticky sweet and savory at the same time. But it doesn’t smell like any person she knows.

The girl ignores the round-headed tool set next to the bowl, and opts instead to lift the entire thing and tip it back into her mouth. The woman makes a small sound but doesn’t stop her.

The red tastes a bit like some of the other red food the girl has eaten, and the loops taste sort of like the long strings she finds in folded paper boxes in the trash sometimes.

When she sets the bowl down to swallow experimentally plucks one of the loops out and tries to stick her tongue through it. It splits and she sucks it down instead.

Another few gulps, and the bowl is empty. The girl cleans it with her tongue and lets the warmth sit comfortably in her middle, easing the growling beast that sometimes sits there.

The woman takes the empty bowl. “I’d make more but you’ll make yourself sick eating that fast.”

The girl’s mouth goes stretch-wide-sleepy-sound and the woman smiles. “I haven’t an extra bed but you can have the couch if you need a nap. But first—do you have a mum or dad I can ring?”

Those two sounds are ones the girl knows. They mean an adult responsible for her, caring for her. It’s a question. The girl does ‘no.’

The woman is sad. She reaches for an object sitting on the counter. “I suppose I’ll ring the police then—”

In a blink, the girl stands between the woman and the object. She knows what those objects do. They bring people. At best, the bring the angry-scared-well-meaning-confused people. At worst they bring the angry-scared-violent-killer-killer-killer people.

The girl doesn’t want either.

The woman is uncertain now. “Honey?”

The girl does ‘no’ again. Sharper twists of her head send half-dried strands of hair at whiping her face.

The woman tries to step around the girl, reaching out. “I’ll only be a moment—” She stops. The girl has one hand wrapped around around the woman’s wrist, the other up, curled into a fist, threatening. The woman steps back, and the girl releases her wrist.

“You really don’t want me to ring?”

The girl stands resolute. The woman wavers still. She stills, decides.

“Alright, if you’re certain.” She took another few steps backward. Shaking, almost. “I’ll fetch you a blanket. You can sit over there.” She gestures to the couch. Her hand quivers only a little.

The girl sits on the couch. She hates making the woman scared, but she can’t do anything else to stop the people.

The woman comes back with a blanket. She’s not scared anymore, just sad. It’s better.

The girl takes the blanket, curls up, face pressed sideways into the cushion. She watches the woman fold herself into the soft chair against the other wall. She plans to stay there.

The girl doesnt like it, but if the woman notices the girl’s eyes on her, she doesn't give any indication. Instead, she begins to hum, then sing. It’s a soft sort of melody, rising and falling in an easy rhythm. The girl doesn't understand the words, but she likes the sound.

A few minutes later, her eyes drift closed.

 

* * *

 

When the girl wakes, it’s night-dark outside. The woman lies asleep, slumped in her chair, soft puffs of breath making the only sound in the house. The girl watches her a moment, then slides the window open and steals off into the night.

 

* * *

 

Cass stands in the street in front of a row house, clutching a can to her chest. The van behind her rumbles, her Barbara offering support. Kind of her to take Cass all the way across the ocean to the little house. Cass breathes. In. Out. She walks up to the door, knocks.

The woman who opens it is shorter than Cass, now. Greyer than last time.

“Can I help you?” She asks.

The girl—Cass, she’s Cass now—holds out the can.

_“It sounds like you had Spaghetti-Os” Barbara had said, when Cass asked this favor. “Here, I’ll find you some.”_

The woman takes it reflexively. Her eyebrows draw together in a frown. “What?”

“I. Thank. You.” Cass says, careful to form her mouth around each word. “For kindness.”

The woman blinks, looks up at Cass. “Child?”

Cass nods.

“Oh goodness!” The woman’s hands quivered before she pulled Cass into a hug. The can she still holds presses into Cass’s spine. She speaks too rapidly for Cass to completely understand the words.

“Oh my. Oh my. I was so scared, when you vanished. You were so alone out there and so small and I worried so, so much. Thank goodness you’re safe.” She steps back then, releasing Cass. She’s happy-surprised-confused, with only the smallest amount of sad. “Come in, come in.”

Cass glances back at the van. Barbara smiles, waves.

The woman—Susan Davies, according to Barbara—notices.

“Your family?” She asks.

Cass’s face goes happy without her making it. “Yes.”

The small sad is gone now. “I’m glad. Come inside, I’ll put the kettle on.”

 


End file.
